It's a tough time to be a public school teacher and in Los Angeles there is a big school board race with national implications. As an advocate for access and equity in public education for ALL students (particularly those students who sit in my classroom every school day and are often unseen or cared for by those in decision-making positions of power) I am thinking about the big picture in the same way this poem is. I hope and work everyday for education policy to change course and I hope in this election, the people will let America be America again. So here is Langston Hughes with a poem that reminded me of my vision of "we, the people," the American ideals of equality, and the dream of what public education could be...
Let America Be America Again
By Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
2.22.2013
2.18.2013
Love That Dog
It's been a long few weeks here at the Nakada-Gantts. First, Scout bit Kiara. It was unprovoked. It was not the first time Scout bit someone we love. Kiara's little ear was cut up, but she's healed fine, and after a few uncertain weeks, a rescue, Lab and Friends, has taken Scout to retrain her and place her in a new home.
Scout had been with us for six years and she was always our unpredictable, slightly crazy dog, but we loved her. Now, in our Scoutless home, David and I struggle with the loss.
There are so many things I already miss: her enthusiastic greeting at the front door, the click of her paw-nails on the hardwoods, the shake of her collar when she stood up, her Scoutness curled up under the dining room table, warming my feet, her cold nose asking for some love, or to get up and take her out.
I miss her drinking at her bowl as if she would never drink again, her high-fives, her biting that forever-itchy-spot on her butt, the southern and British accents Scout barked in, and the Scout song with no resolution.
I miss her sleeping beside the bed and outside Kiara's door.
I miss those soft, soft ears and her sideways look when you asked her a question.
I miss her playing fetch forever, her tennis ball obsession, and walking through the neighborhood with her every day.
Tomorrow we're getting our house cleaned and although I'm sure traces of Scout hair will stick around for a while, eventually most physical traces of her will fade away. I know the house won't always feel so empty when we come home, and my eyes won't always fill with the tears when I think of her. But right now that place in my heart reserved for the love of a dog is so empty I can't quite catch my breath.
So, I hope you will all think of your dogs tonight, the ones you love and have loved. Remember them, or give them a nice long scratch on the back, or behind the ears like Scout loved, because our dogs really do hold a special place in our lives, and you know you love that dog.
 |
| Puppy Scout |
Scout had been with us for six years and she was always our unpredictable, slightly crazy dog, but we loved her. Now, in our Scoutless home, David and I struggle with the loss.
There are so many things I already miss: her enthusiastic greeting at the front door, the click of her paw-nails on the hardwoods, the shake of her collar when she stood up, her Scoutness curled up under the dining room table, warming my feet, her cold nose asking for some love, or to get up and take her out.
 |
| Born swimmer... |
I miss her sleeping beside the bed and outside Kiara's door.
I miss those soft, soft ears and her sideways look when you asked her a question.
I miss her playing fetch forever, her tennis ball obsession, and walking through the neighborhood with her every day.
 |
| Scout reading... |
So, I hope you will all think of your dogs tonight, the ones you love and have loved. Remember them, or give them a nice long scratch on the back, or behind the ears like Scout loved, because our dogs really do hold a special place in our lives, and you know you love that dog.
2.13.2013
52 Poems: Week 6 William Shakespeare
Valentine's Day is upon us, so I
thought I'd post a poem, a love sonnet.
So here are fourteen lines you'll recognize
and when you are done I hope you got it.
thought I'd post a poem, a love sonnet.
So here are fourteen lines you'll recognize
and when you are done I hope you got it.
Sonnet 18 By William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
2.03.2013
52 Poems: Week 5 Robert Frost
The Ravens won the Superbowl today so I wanted to choose a poem that wasn't "The Raven."
Dust of Snow
By Robert Frost
The way a crow
Dust of Snow
 |
| Painting by Sophy White |
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
I'm sure Poe doesn't give a lick about football, but if you like sports (like I do) you might want to check out my neglected sports blog Throwing Cookies.
I'm sure Poe doesn't give a lick about football, but if you like sports (like I do) you might want to check out my neglected sports blog Throwing Cookies.
1.28.2013
52 Poems: Week 4 Edna St. Vincent Millay
I read Savage Beauty, Nancy Milford's biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay, during grad school and although it wasn't one of my favorite books her life story has stayed with me. So to prepare for PEN Emerging Voices poet Kima Jones' lessons on sonnets I read this one. I think Milllay's sad regret will appeal perfectly to my middle schoolers.
What My Lips Have Kissed, And Where And Why
Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
What My Lips Have Kissed, And Where And Why
Edna St. Vincent Millay
 |
| Photo by Tom Haxby. |
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
1.21.2013
52 Poems: Week 3 Richard Blanco
I love when poetry captures a moment and today as I watched President Obama take his oath and the pomp and circumstance which surrounded it, as Kiara toddled around the images of this diverse country surrounding her, this poem brought tears to my eyes. I love the second and fifth stanzas in particular...
One Today
Richard Blanco
One Today
Richard Blanco
One sun rose on us today, kindled
over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of
faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
All of us as vital as the one light
we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our ground, rooting us
to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
The dust of farms and deserts,
cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
Hear: squeaky playground swings,
trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
One sky: since the Appalachians and
Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
One sky, toward which we sometimes
lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn't give what you wanted.
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn't give what you wanted.
We head home: through the gloss of
rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.
1.13.2013
52 Poems: Week 2 Walt Whitman
Gantt and I will go see Lincoln before it leaves theaters, and with that, my poem this week...
O Captain! My Captain
Walt Whitman
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
1.07.2013
Back to School Wishes for 2013
We started the second semester today and after a restful winter break it was good to be back. I really enjoy my job and my students. So, to start class today we wrote some of our wishes for the new year. My students wrote about superpowers, season tickets on Hawaiian Airlines, and dates with Justin Bieber.
I wrote along with them, as I always do, and during third period I wished an anonymous donor would make-over our school giving us a turf field, a new gym, and clean classrooms with working heat and air conditioning. I reread this and felt so sad. This was not a wish. These basics are things our school should have right now.I also wished that Obama would say, "Forget all this testing. Let's make learning fun again." But I don't need Obama to do that. Despite the number of days we are required to spend taking district and state mandated tests (about three weeks) I know my students and I are having fun and we're learning.
There is so much talk about testing and achievement in our schools. There is even more talk about reform and how our schools have to change. I've been an educator for over 15 years and despite the bleak picture many paint of public education in the US, I know in classrooms and schools everywhere, despite all of the noise, teachers are teaching, students are learning, and it's going to be a good year.
1.05.2013
52 Poems: Week 1 Maya Angelou
For 2013, I've decided to post a poem week, read it every day, and possibly commit it to memory. I hope these bits of language might inspire my writing, but mostly I just long for some structure to sharpen my mind and carve my tongue around words. Here is my first...
The Lesson
By Maya Angelou
I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,
Rotting flesh and worms do
Not convince me against
The challenge. The years
And cold defeat live deep in
Lines along my face.
They dull my eyes, yet
I keep on dying,
Because I love to live.
The Lesson
By Maya Angelou
 |
| Baby Kiara's sleeping fist... |
I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,
Rotting flesh and worms do
Not convince me against
The challenge. The years
And cold defeat live deep in
Lines along my face.
They dull my eyes, yet
I keep on dying,
Because I love to live.
12.29.2012
2012: It's a Wrap!
Well, there goes another year of blogging. This has been my least productive year as a blogger, but you know what? I had a lot going on, so I'm not going to worry too much about it.I started the year reading/reviewing The Chronology of Water a memoir by Lidia Yuknavitch. It reminded me why I love to write and that I want/need to push myself to that raw, honest place where Lidia goes. If you still haven't read this, I highly recommend it.
Then I started nesting in preparation for Kiara's grand entrance into my life. I painted a mountain mural, and readied the nursery.
Then, on April 1, I had a baby. April Fools. No, really, I did. You can read Kiara's birth story in three parts. The link starts with part three so if you want to read them in order scroll to the last post first.
When summer arrived I read a book: Looking for Alaska by John Green. I liked it, but took issue with a section where he referred to basketball players as ape men. He doesn't think it is racist. I think it is. You can read the whole deal here. Again, the original post is after all of the conversation which followed. I haven't written much since. I am a new mother struggling to figure out how to make the writing fit. I also tore my Achilles tendon which sucks. Everybody stretch. You don't want to tear, or strain, or rupture that tendon! But I wrote the draft of a novel during NaNoWriMo, and that helped me learn how to sneak in time at the page no matter what else I have going on.
So, thanks for hanging with me in 2012, and here's to 2013. Happy New Year.
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